Running
by Cerridwen7777
Summary: In which Dean abandons Sam in order to save him. Rated for language, and for violence and gore in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**First, a few orders of business. Most importantly, this story will contain spoilers for the Season II finale. Be warned, and bitch not if thou spoilest thyself.**

**Secondly, Stella will eventually make an appearance here. If you don't know who she is, check out my first fic, Normal.**

**Finally, I cannot for the life of me remember who made the quote that begins this story. If you know, help a girl out. I do not take credit for it, and I do not take credit for Sam, Dean, or the Impala. **

**As always, please review. I answer all reviews at my stupid low-tech blog. Thanks!**

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**If you kill one person, you're a murderer. If you kill thousands, you're a conqueror. If you kill everyone, you're God.**

_Red eyes in the dark, like flaring embers in a coal-black face. A crumpled body in a pile of trash, arms and legs askew like a puppet with severed strings. Blood, thick and coppery, in a growing puddle on the cold concrete. An amulet, broken and powerless, grasped in a cold, dead palm._

Sam woke with a start, his heart pounding away in his chest like a jackhammer on overdrive. Damned if he wasn't going to start another day fresh out of a nightmare. Whoopdi-fucking-do, ain't life grand. With a grunt, he rolled over onto his back and mashed his palms against his eyes, raging against the daylight that was creeping through a crack in the curtains. The sounds of the street whispered in from outside, car engines, pedestrian voices, dogs scrapping over territory in an alley. But the room itself was silent.

When Sam finally summoned the energy to sit up, his first sight was that of his brother seated in a chair, shrouded in a shadowed corner. Dean's face was expressionless, lit by the flickering blue glow of the television; his eyes were distant as though his soul had fled and left an empty shell seated in a ratty motel room recliner. That look used to scare Sam, but he had grown accustomed to it. Dean had started to wear it after their dad's death, but he seemed to be wearing it more and more since that night in Cold Oak when Sam woke up from what turned out to be death.

Sam watched him for a long minute, an ache building in his chest. He felt that ache every time Dean wore that look now. The ache was knowledge, knowledge of the sacrifice that Dean was going to make for him, and fear that there was no way to stop it. Finally, he couldn't stand the silence any longer. "Did you sleep at all?" Sam's voice was thick with fatigue, crackling in his throat.

Sam could almost see the barriers slam shut behind Dean's eyes, just as they always did when Dean realized he was being watched. "I caught a couple of hours. Ran down to the bar and made a few bucks and got a little piece of tail, so the night wasn't a total bust." Dean's voice was casual, with that flippant tone that sometimes set Sam's teeth on edge. It irked him because he knew it was dishonest.

"You know, one of these days you're going to kill us both by falling asleep at the wheel." Sam groaned and set his feet on the floor, his toes automatically curling at the touch of the motel carpeting. Even after all these years, it never failed to make his skin crawl, the knowledge that thousands of filthy feet had shuffled over these floors, with only a half-assed vacuum job in between.

"After all the work I had to do after _you _smashed her up? Never." A grin without glee crossed Dean's face, all teeth and no feeling. Nothing in the eyes but wariness. Dean stretched in the recliner, arms waving around over his head as if trying to distract Sam from the face below. "Besides, I don't need beauty sleep like some people. I'm naturally pretty."

"Right. That's why the raccoon eyes." Sam stared pointedly at the shadowy bruises of fatigue that marred the pale skin under Dean's eyes, his annoyance underlined by a niggling of concern. Dean pursed his mouth and waved a dismissive hand at his brother. Sam gave a sigh. "Man, you have to stop pushing yourself so hard. We haven't made any headway finding a way to break the deal, and we'll waste even more time if I have to nurse your sorry ass back to health."

If Dean had been evasive before, the mention of the demon's deal shut him down entirely. "Man, I could use some coffee, though. You want to drag your well-rested ass out of the bed and make a diner run?"

Sam just stared at him, frustration gnawing at his insides. "Don't you ever get tired of this?" The question popped out of his mouth before he could stop it and he knew immediately that it was a mistake, but it was too late to stop now.

"Tired of what, Sam?" There was a warning in Dean's voice.

Fatigue and fear pushed Sam forward when he knew full well that he should let the matter drop. "Tired of the strong and silent routine. This would be a lot easier if you would stop being so stubborn and admit that you're scared."

"And exactly how does being scared make this easier?" Danger in Dean's eyes.

Sam raked his hand through his hair and gusted a sigh. "I don't know, man. I just don't know what to do. We've got no ideas, no leads on how to get you out of this."

"Maybe that's because there isn't a way, Sam." The tone in Dean's voice made the hair on the back of Sam's neck stand up. "What if we're just chasing the wind here?"

"There has to be a way, Dean." Sam leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and tenting his fingers under his chin, his body fairly thrumming with tension. "We'll talk to every hunter we can find, every psychic, every scholar. Bobby's looking, Ellen's looking. We'll find a way."

Dean smirked a half-smile and shook his head. "Sammy, I just want you to be prepared, is all. We'll keep looking, but you have to accept that we might not find the answer this time." He leaned forward, mimicking Sam's posture. "And just because I don't want to talk about it doesn't mean that I'm scared."

An involuntary bark of laughter escaped Sam. Leave it to Dean. Never admit weakness; never give in to defeat. "You should have that tattooed on your ass, man." Sam stood and dug through his duffel for a clean pair of pants. "Maybe if you keep saying it you'll start to believe it." He gave a few sideways hops as he pulled some jeans over his hips, and slid into a not-too-smelly t-shirt. "You want cream and sugar?"

"Did I suddenly become a girl overnight? When did I ever take cream and sugar?" Dean chucked a handful of crumpled money at Sam. "And bring me back an omelet."

Sam shook his head as he stepped into his shoes, and bent to collect the bills from the floor. A glance at them caused his eyebrows to rise almost to his hairline. "Jesus, Dean, it doesn't take three hundred dollars to buy an omelet."

Dean shrugged. "My winnings from last night. Hang onto it for me, or I might go spend it on that hot little number from the bar."

Sam grinned and shoved the money into his pocket. "You're such a whore."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

The door clicked shut between them and Sam squinted in the sunlight. He actually enjoyed these morning food runs. It just felt normal, like going out for breakfast after an all-night study session back at school. His tennis shoes slapped the pavement as he ambled across the street to the dilapidated diner with the neon "op n" sign. The waitress managed a half-hearted smile as he ordered his food to go, disappointed in the knowledge that she was losing a tip.

Sam took a scalding mouthful of his coffee (cream and sugar included, thank you very much) and stepped back out into the street, Styrofoam boxes balanced in his free hand. With a hunter's practice he scanned the street, searching almost unconsciously for danger. What he found, or rather what he did not find, nearly stopped his heart.

The Impala was gone. And right away, Sam knew. So was Dean.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks to all who have reviewed so far. Reviews are nectar to a writer. And I now have a sugar high. Thank you. There are some Season II finale spoilers here, so if you don't want to know, don't read this. As always, the boys and their car don't belong to me. Please review. I answer all reviews at my website. Enjoy!**

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It was second nature to Dean, watching his brother sleep. It had started with their dad, making them stand watches in motel rooms. Teaching them how to survive, he said, as though the ice machine posed some terrible and violent threat, lurking with icy melting fingers outside the room. Never mind the fact that they hadn't even hit puberty yet. Saving the world before their balls even dropped, Dean used to say. And Sam accused him of lacking class? Please.

Dean, being Dean, usually let his watches run long so Sam could get some extra sleep, and after a few hours of contemplating his own navel there was nothing left to do but watch Sam's chest rise and fall in that easy cadence of unconscious breath. It was sometimes enough to lull him into a strange sense of non-being, his mind shutting down everything until he felt like nothing but a set of eyes and ears, alert to any sound, any flicker of movement beyond that of his brother's sleeping breath. Hypnosis, Winchester-style.

This morning had been much the same, sitting silent in the light of the television, watching Sam. But it was different, too, because Dean had come to a decision. He was so lost in his own thoughts that he did not even notice when Sam awoke with a jerk and a gasp, as he always did after a nightmare. It wasn't until Sam spoke that Dean was ripped from his reverie. At the sound of Sam's voice, Dean felt an icy hand grasp the pit of his stomach and twist, and his heart shouted at his mind to rethink, reassess. But Dean's mind stood firm, as always, trampling his heart into submission.

Dean could see that Sam was none the wiser. He picked at Dean's scabs like he always did, trying to get Dean to share, to care, to spew out all his feelings like a messy volcano of emotion. But to his credit, Sam did not pig-dog the subject. He said his piece and then let it go, which was a step up from their normal round-and-round arguments. A bit of friendly name-calling and then Dean's kid brother swaggered out the door, jamming a fistful of money into his jeans pocket.

Dean watched from a crack in the curtains until Sam disappeared into the diner, and then swung his duffel onto his shoulder. A quick glance around the room, at his brother's rumpled bed, the crumpled food containers in the trash can. A still life of their time together, all motels and take-out, changing rooms as often as they changed clothes. Again, Dean's heart begged his mind to stop, but with a quick-drawn breath to steel the nerves, he yanked the door open and stepped into the sunlight.

The creak of the Impala's door made Dean wince and glance toward the diner as though Sam had supersonic hearing and would come running at the sound. Dean shook his head at his own foolishness and threw his bag into the back, and then slid into the car, almost unconsciously running his hand across the soft leather of the seat. The engine rumbled to life like thunder, a sound altogether familiar, a comfort all on its own.

The road out of town seemed endless, and Dean's eyes were drawn continually to the rearview mirror, half-expecting to see Sam's lanky form chasing him along, legs pin-wheeling, face betrayed. Of course, there was nothing but the hazy plume of dust kicked up by the tires and the shadows of the sun through the trees. Dean glanced to the side, to where he had tossed his cell phone. A split second of indecision, and he reached over to turn it off. _Need to put some distance between us, so I don't change my mind._

It was a strange thing, being alone in the car, knowing that his road was solitary again. He had hunted alone when Sam was at Stanford, and there was an adrenaline associated with it that Dean couldn't deny missing. It was just you and the enemy, one to one, only the strongest survives. No one else to look after, to worry about. It was almost elemental in its simplicity. But now there was an emptiness where before there had only been anticipation. _Just admit it, Dean; you're going to miss hunting with him._

Dean shook his head, closing his eyes for a moment. Part of him wanted to just leave them closed, to let the Impala drift across the center line and crush him in a final blast of metal and motor oil. Just James Dean his way into eternity, leather jacket and all, on his own terms. It sure beat of waiting with dread, counting down the days until the hellhounds came for him. But instinct pried his eyes open in time to swerve back into his own lane, ears assaulted by the air horn blast of the passing semi-trailer that had nearly turned him into shrapnel.

His heart was pounding as though it was trying to bash its way through his ribcage, and Dean yanked the steering wheel to pull to the side of the road, oblivious to the sound of gravel pinging against his paint job. Gripping the wheel with white-knuckled hands, he slumped forward to rest his forehead against the hot leather, trying to still the rage of adrenaline in his veins, to reconcile what he had almost just done.

There was no way Dean could just give up and off himself. John would hunt him down in hell and kick his ass, for god's sake. And it just wasn't in him. Going down fighting, that was how he always knew it would end. It was how he _wanted _to go out. And who knew whether the deal would be off if he took matters into his own hands? He couldn't take the chance.

Dean leaned back into the leather embrace of his seat, closing his eyes again. So many times Dean had told Sam, told him that as long as he was there nothing bad was going to happen. He told him so many times that he started to believe it himself. But now he was going against the plan, shifting the paradigm. He was _leaving _Sam to protect him. It made his head reel. But it was the right thing. Sam may never forgive him, would hunt him, chase him like they had chased demons across the map. But maybe, if Dean could keep out of his sights long enough, just maybe Sam would give up. He would toss up his hands and return to his normal life at Stanford. Get a degree, find another girl, get married, raise up five tiny puppy-dog-eyed Winchesters. Be happy. Be safe.

"Dammit, Sam." Dean's voice was low, almost a growl, full of all the frustration and fear and fatigue and anger of years. "This should be easy. I'm doing it to keep you safe." But it wasn't easy. And it wouldn't get easier, he knew.

Dean dug the heel of his palms against his eyes, trying to press all the feelings back down where they belonged, where they couldn't be seen. After a long moment, he glanced in the rearview and guided the Impala back onto the pavement, flooring the accelerator, instinctively correcting the slight fishtail. Without another backward look, he pressed on, leaving Royal Oak. Leaving Sam.


	3. Chapter 3

**I fell off the face of the earth, but managed to climb back on. Thank God for those mountain climbing lessons. Sorry for the wait on this, but summer is the busy season for law enforcement, so I have been swamped. Thanks to those who have so kindly reviewed prior chapters. Keep it up! As always, I answer all reviews on my stupid blog that I never update. And also as always, the boys and the Impala don't belong to me. ::le sigh::**

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Sam could never have described the exact feelings he had in the moment that he realized Dean had gone. It was anger, it was fear, it was confusion, pain, understanding. It was also determination, determination to go after Dean and kick his ass for daring to pull such a stunt. Sam tossed the takeout containers aside, ignoring the rain of egg and tomato that pelted his boot, and pulled the cell phone from the pocket of his jeans. Speed-dialed 1, Dean's number.

Voicemail.

Sam's frustration blossomed and pushed its way past his clenched teeth. "Fuck!" As he jammed the phone back into his pants, his fingers brushed the thick wad of cash Dean had given him. The bastard had _planned _this, dammit, planned it well enough to scrounge up money for Sam to get by once he was gone. _Knowing Dean, he didn't keep enough of the money to get far_, thought Sam grimly. _Which means he'll have to use the credit cards. Which also means I can track him. _Sam let out a mirthless bark of laughter. _Dumbass._

First order of business? Call the cavalry. Sam dug his phone back out and thumbed in a number. Four long, static-tinged rings, then a gravelly voice answered. "Yeah?"

"Hey Bobby. It's Sam."

"What's wrong?"

Sam would have laughed if he weren't so pissed. Bobby was a hunter through to the bone, always assuming the worst. As if Sam would never call just to say hello, to check in. Though come to think of it, he probably wouldn't. "Listen, Dean ditched me in Royal Oak. Has he gotten hold of you?"

"What do you mean he ditched you?" Bobby's voice was wary, as though he had been expecting this call, but didn't want to give that fact away.

"He waited until I went to get breakfast and he took off in the car. What the fuck else would I mean?" snapped Sam, patience completely spent. Every second wasted was a second lost.

There was a long pause, and then Bobby's drawl broke the silence. "I haven't heard from him. But if I do I'll call ya." The words were terse, cut sharp like glass. Sam didn't know if it was because Bobby was hurt, or because he didn't want to give anything away.

Sam sighed, ruffling a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry, Bobby. Just give me a call if you hear anything." A click in his ear told him Bobby was gone. Sam flipped his phone shut and jammed it into his pocket with a quiet curse. His stomach was twisting with nausea and adrenaline. He jogged across the street and keyed open the motel room door.

The room didn't look much different, but it felt empty to Sam, an emptiness that grabbed his gut and wrenched it around. It wasn't as though the room had been turned upside down or ransacked. It looked almost exactly the same as it had when he last left it. Takeout containers were still overflowing the trashcan, and Dean's empty beer bottles were still lined up on top of the old black and white television. The only things missing were Dean's duffel and Dean himself. But that was enough.

Sam gusted a sigh that nearly took all the wind out of him, and dropped to a seat on the edge of one of the twin beds. _How many of these rooms had he and Dean seen over their lifetimes, _he wondered, kicking the toe of his boot across the brown shag carpet. A wry grin, born more of helplessness than of glee, slashed briefly across his face as he remembered his first few months at Stanford. He had spent countless nights lying awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep without the quiet sound of Dean's breath, without that nameless sense of his brother's presence. He and Dean had slept in the same room for as long as Sam could remember, whether it was in a motel or at Pastor Jim's farm. Only when Sam met and moved in with Jessica was he able to close his eyes in peaceful sleep.

Leaning backward across the bed, Sam grabbed the Yellow Pages from the nightstand and leafed it open to the car rental pages. _Oh, but am __I__ pissed_, he thought, running his mind over all the things he would have to do to chase Dean down. _What a fucking waste of time._

_But no_, he stopped himself. Dean was a lot of things, but a waste of time wasn't one of them. "Dammit, Dean," muttered Sam, tossing the phone book aside. "Why do you have to be so stubborn?" He knew deep down why Dean had left. Their terse conversation that morning about the demon's deal was the neon, glaring sign that Sam had missed. He shook his head, pursing his mouth in self-flagellating anger. He should have seen it coming. Should have known.

"You think I'm just going to sit here while you crawl into a hole and wait to die?" Sam's voice echoed slightly against the walls of the room. "You know better than that, you ass-clown." Sam bent to snatch up a crumpled t-shirt from the floor, and jammed it into his duffel bag. As he did, his eyes caught sight of a leather satchel sitting at the foot of Dean's bed. Sam dropped to his knees and pulled it open. Inside was an array of demon-hunting tools: salt, a silver dagger, a brass knife, and several firearms. But worst, sitting on top of all of it, was the journal.

Sam's breath fled him in a gasp, as though someone had jabbed him in the chest and knocked the wind out of him. "Shit." Dean rarely let the journal out of his sight, as though he were clinging to it like a life preserver. He always said that it was because of all the valuable information that their dad had recorded in it, but Sam knew that was only part of it. Dean clung to it because it was all they had left of John. For him to leave it behind was a bad sign. It was a very bad sign, one that left Sam feeling a rare tinge of terror in the pit of his gut. He pushed it away with a snort of false bravado. "Sorry bro, you're not getting away that easily."

A quick recon of the room revealed no clues as to Dean's destination, though Sam hadn't imagined that it would. He shouldered his bag, patted his hip, where a 9-millimeter Glock nestled in a paddle-holster, and stepped back out in to the sunshine.

The hunt was on.


	4. Chapter 4

**::Flays self for laziness:: So sorry for the long wait. After a long day of chasing down criminals, my brain is normally too fried to write. Summer in law enforcement is a nightmare. But I had the afternoon off, so I pounded this out so ya'll would know I'm still alive. Thanks again to all who have reviewed. You guys are great. As always, I have no beta, so any mistakes are mine and mine alone. Also, sadly, Dean and Sam are not mine. If they were I would sic them on some of my clients. Please review!**

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The afternoon was fading fast when Dean drove up the gravel road toward the farm, grimacing every time a stone pinged against the paintwork of the car. He honked his horn as he pulled to a stop next to the barn, and when no one emerged to greet him he shut off the ignition and laid his head back against the headrest for a moment, feeling every mile of the five-hour drive in the numbness of his ass.

One of the barn cats ambled out to meet him as he eased himself out of the car, and she twisted and twirled around his ankles, making small chirping noises and purring like an engine. Dean bent to run his fingers over her tiger-striped fur and she kicked the purring into overdrive, her chest thrumming with the sound. After a long and noisy stretch, Dean limped into the grass and eased himself to rest in the frayed hammock that was strung between two mammoth chestnut trees. Uninvited, the cat leapt to curl up on his chest as soon as he laid down, her purr like a tiny massage through his shirt. The sun-faded material of the hammock molded itself around his body like an embrace, rocking gently in the wind, and a swell of sleepy contentment washed over him. _This is it,_ he thought. _Work a nine-to-fiver, do construction, then home to the farm to relax with a beer and a steak on the barbeque. It's only for a year. I wouldn't get bored in just one year. I could do this._

Dean opened his eyes just a smidge, vision fuzzy through the veil of his lashes, and stared at the sky that flickered into view through the aspen leaves. The drone of a single engine plane broke the silence and Dean couldn't suppress a sudden burst of laughter, because into his mind had leapt an image of Sam in a bi-plane, all scarf and goggles, scanning the ground below with binoculars. Searching for him. The thought made him anxious and sad and relieved, all at once. He was sad because he knew that Sam would never stop looking, because he knew that Sam was hurting. He was anxious because a part of him hoped that his brother would understand what he was trying to do and let him do it. Relief was because he was confident that he could stay a step ahead of Sam. _Shit, Sammy. Why do you have to be so stubborn? Why can't you just let me do this for you? Hell, let me do it for me._

Such was his reverie that he nearly jumped out of his skin when something cold and heavy dropped onto his lap, which in turn sent the cat flying out of his embrace, her claws leaving a quadruple set of scarlet slashes across his wrist. He flailed momentarily, the hammock preventing him leaping to his feet to defend himself, and then a familiar chuckle stilled him. A glance at his stomach revealed a large parcel wrapped in butcher paper and saran, with a tinge of pinky blood collecting in the folds of the plastic. "You almost crushed the jewels, woman," he grunted, vaguely annoyed. "And you'd think that you of all people would know better than to sneak up on a hunter."

"I thought you knew better than to get snuck up on." Stella cocked an eyebrow at him, and then cast a pointed stare at his chest. "Those steaks ain't gonna cook themselves, you know. You'd best fire up the grill now, if you want to eat before the skeeters come out." With a practiced thrust of her arms she spun and started toward the house, her wheelchair bumping across the rutted driveway. Dean extricated himself from the hammock, hefting the steaks in his hand, and followed. The cat, perhaps smelling the meat, followed him, meowing sweetly, ignoring his blood on her claws.

Dean wiped his bloody wrist across his shirt and began to scrub down the grill grates with a wire brush. A few spiders scuttled away, but the one who did not suffered a sudden and flaming death when Dean clicked the grill's igniter, sending a rush of flame across the grates.

Stella emerged from the house with a tray full of food and dishes set precariously across her lap. Dean hurried to relieve her of it, and barked a laugh. "Jesus, Stell, are you expecting more people?" She shot him a look and a gesture and he laughed again, setting the tray on the picnic table. "So where were you earlier?" he asked as he laid out the mismatched silverware and the heavy plates with their chipped edges. When Stella wasn't looking he stuck his finger into a particularly tasty-looking bowl of pasta salad and popped a curly-q noodle into his mouth.

Stella wheeled up to the grill, a pile of half-shucked corn on her knees, and laid the ears carefully across the grates. "Had to run into town. The yard boy went up to the Yoop, so I had to lay some things in before the weekend. If I knew you were comin', I might have bought some PBR instead of the expensive stuff." She jerked her thumb toward the two bottles of beer on the table.

Dean grinned and swatted at her with the spatula. "What ever happened to 'Only the best for my beloved Dean'?" Stella gave an unladylike snort of laughter, which only made Dean smile even wider. He stepped to her side and tossed the steaks onto the grill, inhaling to catch the immediate scent that wafted up. "My feelings are hurt." Stella laughed again, chucking a hunk of cheese toward the cat, who pounced and devoured it, then went back to rubbing her face on Dean's leg, begging for scraps of meat.

"You realize that you haven't asked what I'm doing here, don't you?" Dean pressed his spatula onto one of the steaks, listening to the sizzle of the drippings in the fire. A part of him was nagging for silence, to just enjoy the peace of the farm, not to fuck it up with his reasons for coming. Not to disappoint her with what he had done. But she deserved an explanation. She deserved to know.

"Figured you'll tell me when you're ready." Stella didn't look at him, instead concentrating on the fruit she was dicing for salad. "And if you don't want me to know, that's fine too."

Dean felt his chest tighten with fondness for Stella, in all her faded, graying, grouchy glory, and with a strange sadness too, a desire to hide the truth from her. In all honesty, he was ashamed to tell her; ashamed and afraid that she would hate him for what he had done. Before he could think to stop it, he blurted, "Sam died, Stell." Stella's head jerked up, eyes wide, mouth a little 'o' of shock, and Dean hastened on before she could speak. "He died and I made a deal."

Stella's face went through a rapid-fire set of emotions, from anger to sadness to understanding, finally settling on a gray look of weariness. "Shit." The word was spoken without judgment, without rage. It just _was._ "Then where's Sam?" As soon as the words left her mouth, understanding dawned in her eyes. "You left him behind, didn't ya." It wasn't a question. Her knife went back to clicking against the cutting board, staccato, sharp like the angry words that she didn't speak.

Dean mashed down one of the steaks a little harder than necessary, the heat from the fire searing against the scratches on his wrist. "I didn't have a choice. If I tried to break the deal, the demon would have taken Sam back. And you know that stubborn little bastard was going to try to find a way to fix it."

"I hardly think you're in any place to call him a stubborn bastard." Stella's voice was vaguely accusatory, and Dean's gaze flew to her, confused and a little hurt. She glanced at him, her knife still chopping away at a pear. "Why did you bring him back?"

A little flare of anger blazed in Dean's eyes, and he snapped back, "That's a hell of a question. He's my brother, what was I supposed to do?" She looked up at him, one eyebrow raised, mouth pursed a little. Dean tossed the spatula down, anger growing. "It's my job to protect him. You know that. I had to do it."

"So you brought him back because otherwise you would be a failure." Stella laid her knife down and stuck one of her fingers into her mouth, sucking off the fruit juice.

"You know what? _Fuck _you, Stella." Dean jabbed at one of the steaks with his finger, ignoring the heat that blazed across his hand. "If you can't understand somebody loving his brother enough to die for him, then I feel sorry for you."

"So you love him enough to die for him, but not enough to stay with him while you do?" Her voice was even, unbothered by his anger.

"I'm trying to spare him, Stella." Dean's voice broke a little and he gave a cough, trying to cover the emotion, trying to chalk up the tears in his eyes to the smoke. "I won't let him throw his life away by trying to get me out of this. And he would never just let it be, he would try and try until he finally broke the deal, and then I'd have to lose him all over again. I can't do it. I _won't_ do it."

Stella smiled, gesturing at the grill. "Don't burn those." Dean stared at her for a minute, and then couldn't suppress a laugh.

"Jesus, Stella, you're something else." He slid the steaks off the heat and onto a platter, and stepped over the picnic bench to sit across from her. "Get a guy all worked up, why don't ya."

"All I'm sayin' is you'd better at least be honest with yourself." She spooned a helping of fruit onto his plate, then stole a grape from the bowl. "Because I'd wager that sooner or later you're gonna have to explain it to Sam." Stella rested the neck of a beer bottle against the table and gave it a downward slap, sending the bottle cap flying, and handed the beer to Dean. "If I know anything about Winchesters, I know that he's as stubborn as you, and you won't be able to get away from him for long. And you owe it to him to tell the truth about what his dying did to you."

Dean took a bite of steak, and gave a little groan of pleasure as the tender meat almost dissolved on his tongue. "I know," he admitted. "But in the meantime, no more lectures. Let's just eat." He took another bite, then spoke around the food. "But thanks." Stella quirked her mouth in a half-smile, and offered forth an ear of corn.

And so they sat quietly, enjoying their meal and listening to the crickets singing in the trees.


	5. Chapter 5

**With regard to the last chapter I forgot to say, for those of you not from this area, the Yoop is the UP, the upper penninsula of Michigan. That lingo probably escaped some of you, but it's just colloquial to Michigan (and perhaps Wisconsin, which, as Anteka from Plastic!Winchester points out, appears to be a Hellmouth). Sorry for any confusion. So here's another chapter for you to read and especially to review. As always, I answer all reviews on my website, so head that way if you want to. And also as always, none of these boys are mine. ::Sniff::**

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Sam pressed his foot more firmly to the gas pedal, feeling the slight push of acceleration against his body. The Taurus he'd rented had a big engine and plenty of speed, but was low-key enough not to attract too much attention, so he felt safe pushing the speedometer to 85. Granted, Dean didn't give a shit about attracting attention when he rented cars, particularly if the attention came with blonde hair and big tits. But Sam felt too nervous traveling with his arsenal hidden beneath a blanket in the trunk to splurge his money on a muscle car. Not for the first time he found himself wishing that all car trunks came equipped with Dean's handy-dandy hidey-hole of doom, so he could relax a bit, rather than pissing his pants every time he saw a squad car running radar along the highway.

It was half-past five when he pulled into Castlewood. He filled his tank at the run-down service station on the edge of town, ignoring the curious stare of the grizzled gas-jockey who watched him from the porch. The curious stare turned to a suspicious glare when Sam paid for the gas with a hundred-dollar bill, but the curiosity dissipated when Sam tucked a twenty into the man's pocket as a tip for minding his own business.

The drive from town to the auto yard wasn't long, and Sam could have made the trip with his eyes closed, he knew the route so well. As he pulled into the yard, he could see Bobby's old Rotty-dog, Rumsfeld, sprawled in the dirt, black fur tinged gray with the dust. He didn't even twitch as Sam walked up next to him, but just blinked at him with rheumy eyes. Sam bent to scratch the dog behind the ears, muttering, "Some watchdog you are." The dog made a little wuffling sound of contentment and stretched his back legs out behind him, all the better to soak up the sun.

Leaving the dog with a hearty pat on the ribs, Sam ambled toward the house, smiling with a touch of exasperation at the hubcaps nailed across the front façade. Redneck Modern Art, otherwise known as Blight. If he didn't love Bobby like an uncle he'd be tempted to put a match to the whole place.

His thoughts were interrupted as he saw Bobby's head, trucker cap firmly in place, poke around a corner of the pole barn. Sam raised a hand in greeting and Bobby strolled toward him, tucking a greasy rag into the seat of his jeans. Sam stuck his hand out for a shake, but Bobby bypassed it and crushed him in a hug.

"How you been, Sam?" Sam returned the embrace, marveling as always that Bobby now seemed so small. When Sam was young, Bobby seemed a bear of a man, all muscle and hair. But when Sam's hormones went into overdrive and he shot up six inches in six months, Bobby started to seem less big. Less strong.

As Sam got older he began to notice other things about Bobby that he had never seen before. He noticed the scars, but more, he noticed that shifty look in Bobby's eyes, the look one gets when always on the watch for danger. He saw it now in Dean, and sometimes even saw it in the mirror. It was one sign a hunter couldn't hide.

Sam's throat tightened at the thought of Dean, and he brushed a hand through his hair. "Any word?" Bobby's mouth tightened and he shook his head slightly.

"Come on in and get some dinner. Got some stew on the stove. No use puttin' it to waste on Rumsfeld." Bobby turned and shuffled toward the house, his flannel-clad shoulders slumping slightly as though under a heavy load. Sam managed a sad smile and followed, kicking his toes in the dirt like he used to do, feeling a bit like a small boy again.

Something about coming back to Bobby's always made Sam feel like a kid, no matter how tall he got. It was like if he just closed his eyes he would see his dad again, younger and stronger, sparring with a gangly teenaged Dean in the pole barn. There were just too many memories here, and it made his heart clench. All the memories included Dean, and to be here without him just felt wrong. It felt empty.

The kitchen of the house was a bit dingy, as always, cluttered and poorly lit. It wasn't that Bobby didn't want to clean; it just fell rather low on his priority list. Sam's nose caught the scent of the stew, and his stomach gave an angry rumble. Probably cursing him for driving five hours without a stop for anything more than a Twix bar. Bobby dipped a ladle into the pot and dished a large helping of meat and potatoes into a cracked bowl.

Sam dropped to a seat at the kitchen table, which was covered with dusty, dog-eared journals and research books. Bobby joined him, wordlessly handing him a spoon, and they both tucked into the stew. Sam had to admit that while Bobby's housekeeping wasn't up to scratch, his cooking skills had improved.

"Bobby?"

Bobby looked up, one cheek bulging out with a chunk of meat.

"Where do you think he is?" Sam hated the plaintive sound of his voice.

Bobby wiped a palm over his face. "Wish I knew. You know as well as I do that if he don't want to get found, you ain't findin' him."

Sam dropped his spoon and stared into his bowl. "I just don't get it. Why? Why did he leave, and without a word?"

"Well, I'd say he left without a word because he knew you wouldn't let him go. But as to why he left at all…" Bobby stopped and spooned more stew into his mouth, shaking his head. When Sam just stared at him expectantly, Bobby sighed and swallowed his mouthful. "Sam, you know your brother. If he thought you'd be in any danger because of the deal, he'd do whatever it took to keep you safe." He cocked an eyebrow. "No matter how pissed off it would get you."

Sam gave a sigh of his own, one of exasperation. "Dammit, Bobby, if I were the one who had made the deal, Dean would do whatever it took to fix it. He would _never _let me run away from it."

"He's not runnin' away from it, Sam." Bobby laid his own spoon down and stared at Sam with serious eyes. "Give him his credit on that one; he'd never run from something' supernatural. He's runnin' from you, because he's afraid that you'll throw your life away by tryin' to fix it."

Sam startled Bobby and himself by slamming a fist against the table, rattling the dishes. "That's not good enough!" he thundered, rage overwhelming his self-control. "If it were my ass on the line, he couldn't sacrifice himself fast enough to break the deal! I won't sit back and watch my brother die! I won't, and _fuck _him for trying to make me!" Now that the dam had opened, his anger rushed out like a wave. "All my life, he's been throwing himself into the line of fire for me, always putting himself out there in danger and pushing me back, shielding me! Who the fuck made him my dad?!"

Sam regretted the words as soon as they came out, and a slick of hot tears came to his eyes. He dropped his head and placed a palm over his face, pressing his emotions back down. "Sorry." His voice was low, thick.

Bobby shook his head. "Nothin' to be sorry for." He spooned another mouthful of stew into his mouth, but his eyes never left Sam's face.

With his hand still covering his eyes, Sam said quietly, "I can't lose him, Bobby. First mom, then Jess, then dad. But not him." He drew a shuddering breath. "I couldn't stand that."

Bobby's voice was quiet, almost gentle. "Ever think that maybe he feels the same way?"

Sam bit the inside of his mouth, tasting the sudden tang of blood, trying to find a reply. But he didn't have an answer for Bobby's question, because he knew that his friend, his surrogate-uncle, was right.


	6. Chapter 6

**Hello again. I just want to say how much fun I'm having writing this...Golly, it's basically writing itself. At any rate, please review...and head to my website, where I answer all reviews, and generally blather on. Thanks to those who have been following this story and reviewing faithfully. Ya'll know who you are. **

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Dean woke to the comforting hum of the window air conditioner that was sending waves of cool air over his skin, contrasting deliciously with the warmth of the patch of sun that streamed across his bare back. He stretched languidly, unleashing a mighty yawn, and burrowed his nose into the pillow, not wanting to admit that it was day. But there was no denying the light in the room, so he groaned and opened his eyes.

His first sight was a furry, whiskered face only a foot from his own. He gave a jolt and a gasp, but the calico cat just stared at him, then stepped forward to touch her nose to Dean's. After a delicate sniff, she leapt from the bed and ambled out of the room, looking over her shoulder as if beckoning him to follow. With another groan, Dean rolled over and untangled his legs from a blue knit afghan. He didn't remember having it last night. _Stella must have come in during the night_. He gave a little chuckle. Stella was always on him to sleep in proper pajamas, instead of his boxers. Said she was an old lady and didn't need that sort of temptation in her house.

With a grunt, Dean boosted himself out of bed to shuffle after the cat, bare feet silent on the wood floor. The farmhouse was almost silent, with only the ticking of the clocks to break the stillness. Dean, smelling coffee, headed immediately for the kitchen. The cat was waiting for him in front of her bowl, eyeing him expectantly, so he scooped some dry food out of the bag beside the fridge for her. He rolled his eyes at the "Her Majesty" collar she was wearing, but gave her a quick scratch behind the ears before pulling a mug from the cupboard. After pouring himself a cup of coffee, Dean stepped to the kitchen window and pushed aside one of the white eyelet curtains to peer out into the yard.

Stella was seated in the dirt of the garden, legs sprawled awkwardly in front of her, her wheelchair parked nearby. Dean shook his head as he watched her wrestling weeds out of the soil, flinging them wildly over her shoulder. Her hair was disheveled and a large smudge of mud slashed across one of her biceps. A chuckle escaped Dean and he took a deep draught of coffee, mouth pursing at the nutty bitterness. There was a baking tin of fresh muffins cooling on the counter, but as he reached for one the quiet was shattered by the shrill ring of the telephone.

With another glance outside at Stella, Dean picked up the receiver. "'Lo?"

"Dean."

A grimace tugged at Dean's mouth as he recognized the voice. "Hey, Bobby." He knew what the call had to mean. "What's new?"

"No point for small talk." Bobby's voice was gruff, firm. "Sam was here. Told me what you did."

Dean sighed, setting his coffee cup on the counter and running his hand through his hair. "He's mad, huh?" He stepped into the living room and slid to a seat on the carpet, back resting against the wall. Clicking toenails heralded the arrival of Stella's little corgi dog, Pip, and Dean ruffled the dog's fur, trying to ignore the nervous turning of his stomach.

"Mad ain't the word for it. He's straight-on pissed." Bobby gave a dry chuckle. "He's got your dad's temper, for sure."

Dean gave a little laugh himself, having been on the receiving end of those tantrums before. "How'd you find me?"

"Not too many places I'd expect you could go that Sam wouldn't know of."

"He's been here before, Bobby." Dean twisted the phone cord around his hand, watching his fingertips flush purple as he pulled it tight.

"When?"

"I brought him here…" Dean couldn't say it. Couldn't put into words what he had done, what he had given away. "After." He pressed a palm against his forehead, wishing he could just be honest, could give up the pretense of strength, of control. That he could admit he was scared. "I wanted him to have a place to go when it happens. When I'm gone."

A heavy sigh came over the line. "I think you're wrong here, Dean." Dean didn't reply, just rubbed at his eyes, willing Bobby not to continue. It didn't work. "After everything that you boys have gone through together, to just leave him without a word…it ain't fair. Not to him, and not to you."

"I can't trust him." Dean's voice went hard. "I can't trust him to just let it be, to let it happen. The demon said that if I tried to break the deal, everything would be off, and Sam would die. I'm can't let that happen."

"Have you told him that?"

Dean couldn't speak. He opened his mouth but had no words. He was afraid that if he tried to say anything he would burst into tears, which he would never be able to live down. Much less live it down in less than a year. How could he ask his brother to let him die? Especially since he knew that Sam would never do it.

"You there?" The tone in Bobby's voice told Dean that he knew perfectly well that Dean was there, and that he also knew why Dean was silent. But good old Bobby, he'd play dumb.

"Yeah." The word was gruff, shaky. _Dammit, get a hold on yourself. Man up. _"You didn't tell him where I am?"

"No. But if you brought him there before, I'd say it's only a little time before he heads that way." Bobby gave a long pause, waiting for Dean to speak, but only silence came over the line. "He's not gonna give up, you know."

Dean nodded to the empty room, giving a low cough to clear the lump in his throat. "I know."

"You gonna be okay?"

"Yeah, I'm good." Dean fisted his hand in Pip's fur, and the little dog wriggled closer against his hip, as though sensing his distress and wanting to comfort him. "And thanks."

"Don't you be a stranger, Dean. We're still family."

"Be safe, Bobby."

Dean thumbed the phone to hang it up and let go of the receiver, watching it rebound on its cord and skid back into the kitchen. With a little more force than necessary he thumped his head back to rest against the wall, closing his eyes. Willing his emotions back into check. Strength. Control.

The quiet was broken by the angry, hang-me-up-you-asshole buzzing of the phone. Pip promptly went off to investigate the sound, leaving Dean sitting on the floor, staring at the crisscrossing tracks left in the thick beige carpet by Stella's wheelchair. With a heavy sigh, he pushed himself to his feet and wandered across the room, running a hand over his jaw, willing himself into calm, into control.

Pictures cluttered the top of Stella's antique piano. Photos of Bobby, of her long-dead family, of other hunters that Dean didn't know. Pictures of faces smiling at a backyard barbeque, of weddings, of christenings, even of funerals. The lives of the hunters, by Kodak. Dean's eyes caught sight of a simple black frame, and of his own face, and he picked up the photo.

There he was, smiling over a plate of roast beef and potatoes, hand raised in a genial wave. Relaxed. Happy. Safe. Soul intact, knowing that Sam was safe at Stanford.

Would he ever feel that happy again?

Dean dropped his head, taking a deep breath to steady his hand, and moved to place the picture back on the piano. But as he did, his gaze fell on a thick folder that sat on the keyboard. He picked it up, and a handful of newspaper clippings slipped out and fluttered to the carpet. He dropped to a knee and began to gather them up, glancing through each article before placing it back in the folder.

"I thought you might find those interesting."

Dean looked up at Stella, who had wheeled herself quietly into the room. She smoothed a palm across her hair, ignoring the dirt under her fingernails. "I've been keeping an eye on the situation for a while now. Nobody's been around to pass it on to, so…" She trailed off, raising an eyebrow inquisitively. "You interested?"

Dean felt that old familiar whirl in his stomach, the rush of adrenaline he always got when on the trail of something evil. _Yeah._ A hunt. It was just what he needed. He looked down at the papers again, running his thumb over the newsprint. "You know what, maybe I am."


	7. Chapter 7

_Sam found himself on a deserted road, lit only by the intermittent rays of moonlight that pierced the scudding clouds. His senses were on high alert, all his nerves pinging and tingling with anticipation. No gun on his hip, no holy water in his flask…not even table salt in his pocket._

_He turned to look to the south and found himself face to face with a woman. Her dark beauty was all at once alluring and menacing, and though he had never seen her before, he knew immediately who she was._

"_He's mine, you know." Her voice was silky, a low murmur that could have been sexy if it were not filled with such hatred. "No matter what you try, I'm going to keep him. Why would I throw back a big fish to catch a minnow like you?"_

_Sam opened his mouth to speak, but she lifted her pale hand to press a finger against his lips, and he was powerless to resist. "I'm going to make him scream." Her red eyes flared with anticipation, with hunger. "He'll be begging for death before the end. And I will only take his soul when he is completely broken." A sneer marred her face. "The Warrior-Son will be mine. And you can't stop it."_

Sam woke with a start, the demon's voice echoing in his mind. It took a panicky moment for him to recognize his surroundings: the interior of the Taurus. He winced as a crick in his back twinged and he reached to massage the nape of his neck, cursing his decision to sleep in the front seat of the car instead of stretching out in the back.

The dawn light was growing, tingeing the trees outside his window with an unreal, rosy glow. Still a dream? With startling suddenness, a dog's face suddenly appeared at the driver's side window. It managed one frantic yap before disappearing from view, only to reappear, tongue lolling, eyes wild. Sam scrubbed a hand across his eyes and opened the car door, and within seconds his lap was full of corgi. "Hey, Pip." The dog was wriggling and slavering, giving little yips of excitement as he attempted to wash Sam's face with his tongue.

"Pip!" A woman's sharp call brought the little dog under control immediately. Sam shoved Pip off his lap and unfolded himself from the car. Stella was seated on the farmhouse's wraparound porch, a coffee mug in one hand and a cigarette in the other, and a table with another cup at her side. She smiled an invitation and Sam loped up to the house, stretching to work out the kinks. He collapsed to a seat in a weathered old Adirondack chair, and gratefully accepted Stella's outstretched mug of hot coffee. "Muffin?" She pushed forward a plate of what appeared to be homemade strawberry muffins, their tops dusted with powdered sugar. His stomach suddenly reminding him of its recent neglect, Sam snatched one up and devoured it with a speed that bordered on rude.

As he licked the sugar from his fingers, Sam turned to Stella and flashed a smile. "Guess I needed that." She smiled back, pushing the plate a little closer to him, and he took another muffin with no further prompting.

Once Sam had another mouthful, Stella spoke. "What time did you get here? And why didn't you come in? No need for sleeping in the car." Stella took a muffin of her own, breaking it open to pick out a chunk of strawberry and pop it in her mouth, then turned toward the barn where the horses were poking their heads out of the stall doors, neighing impatiently for their freedom.

"It was about three-thirty. I didn't want to wake you."

Stella chuckled. "Well, you're more polite than your brother, at any rate. He just would have broken in and I'd have found him passed out in the guest room the next morning."

Sam grinned. While he didn't know Stella well, it was obvious that she had a very real and strong friendship with Dean, which made her okay in Sam's book. He took another mouthful of coffee, buying himself a moment of time, then said, "Not to be rude or anything, but I'm just going to come out and ask it. Is Dean here?"

Stella gave a tight-lipped smile, full of regret and sadness and understanding for Sam's cross-country chase. "I won't lie, Sam." She reached across the table to pat his hand. "He was here, but he's gone. He took a job."

Sam's breath caught in his throat as his heart made a funny little jump in his chest. "A hunt?" When Stella nodded, Sam felt anger flare, anger that his brother would so foolishly take a hunt on his own, but he tried to hide it by raising his eyes toward the sky. As he did, his eyebrows shot to his hairline, for carved into the ceiling of the porch was a long line of sigils and signs. He stood and reached up to trace one of the signs with his finger. "Holy shit," he breathed. "Does this go around the entire house?"

Stella nodded again, gesturing upward. "After I got out of the hospital and came home, Bobby and a few of his buddies did that. Basically made the whole house into a devil's trap. They were scared that I wouldn't be able to protect myself anymore." She pulled a sour face and rolled her eyes. "Just 'cause I'm a broken down old woman doesn't mean I can't point and shoot."

A strange sense of elation bubbled up in Sam's chest. He turned to Stella, seeking her gaze, excitement glowing in his eyes. "Could hell-hounds enter the house, with these inscriptions here?"

A strange look crossed Stella's face, and she reached out to guide Sam back into his chair. "It could keep them out, yes." She hastened to continue before Sam could speak. "But a devil's trap can work both ways, you know. It keeps them out, but it also keeps you in. No going out to work in the yard, no nights on the town, no vacations. Just the same rooms, the same walls day after day. When you're trapped like that, every day is like a little death." She paused, pursing her mouth, her own sadness evident in her eyes. "And I know Dean well enough to know that it would never work."

So Dean had told her about the deal. "What do you mean?" Sam knew perfectly well what she meant, but didn't want to admit it. Didn't want to admit that the one real lead he had found on saving his brother was impossible to pull off.

"Dean would want to go after those devil dogs, balls out with rock salt. He wouldn't want to waste away inside this house. And you know that." Stella leaned forward in her chair, running her thumb around the edge of her coffee mug, glancing up at the carvings above them. "Hiding isn't the answer, and it isn't what Dean would want."

"I know." Sam didn't want to speak the words, but they forced their way past the lump in his throat and surprised him. "I just don't know what else to do. And as long as he keeps running from me, I can't even think straight, much less find a way to help him."

"He's not trying to hurt you, you know." Stella's smoke-roughened voice was surprisingly gentle. "He's trying to protect you the only way he knows how."

"But he's wrong." Sam's reply was breathy with pain and frustration and hidden tears.

"I know he is." Stella's answer shocked Sam into silence, and he just sat there staring at her, tears lurking in the corners of his eyes. "But just because he's wrong doesn't mean that he's not _trying _to do the right thing."

Sam dashed a hand over his eyes, drawing a shuddering breath. Damned if he hadn't spent a ridiculous amount of time in tears lately, but he didn't have it in him to be embarrassed. Not when it came to his brother. He would cry a river of tears in front of the whole world if it meant saving his brother.

"Dean is a lot of things, Sam, but he's not a quitter. He doesn't want to die. He just doesn't know how not to without losing you in the process." Stella softly touched his arm, her work-hardened hand plucking at his sleeve. "I'm going to go in and call Bobby, let him know you're here safe." She paused for a few seconds. "You okay?"

Sam nodded silently, giving a small smile of thanks, and Stella wheeled herself into the house, the light screen door squealing on its hinges before slamming shut behind her. Sam leaned back in his chair, gusting out a shaky breath and brushing a hand through his hair. As he reached for his cup of coffee, his eyes caught sight of a few news clippings tucked beneath the plate of muffins. Moving the plate aside, he glanced through them quickly and a smile suddenly gleamed on his face. That Stella, sly gal. If she couldn't tell Sam where Dean was, she damn sure could point him the right direction.

"Gotcha."


	8. Chapter 8

**I'm a bit worried about the state of my mental health, because it was a ridiculous amount of fun to write this chapter. As for Dean's prey, it is based on a real legend, but embellished for effect (because the real thing is vaguely dorky). Please, please review, and let me know if I hit the right note with this chapter. As always, I answer all reviews at my website. Also, a special thanks to Ster1 for her advice and encouragement. And BTW, the boys aren't mine.**

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Dean knelt in the bracken of the forest floor, one hand resting on his knee, the other sifting through the leaves on the ground. He was watching his surroundings, listening to the birds, smelling the air…all senses on full alert. Waiting.

He never felt more alive than he did in these moments. It was elemental. It was what he was born for. Adrenaline was coursing in him, but not so much that it impaired his judgment. It made him more alert, enhanced his reflexes, heightened his senses. It was better than any drug anyone could offer, and addictive as hell.

Stella's news articles had told him everything he needed to know. The attacks were coming in spates every 15 years, with the burned corpses of young women turning up ravaged and charred, their innocence stolen and their bodies broken. Dean didn't even have to investigate to know the truth; he only had to read the three words that Stella had scrawled at the bottom of one of the clippings: Spring-Heeled Jack.

It was a spirit, a demon, whose story went down through the ages. It had the body of a man and the eyes of a devil, but was as cold and soulless as an animal. Incapable of speech, feared by humans, it preyed on young girls, violating their bodies and stealing their innocence before engulfing them in blue flames, burning them alive and reveling in the firelight of their flesh. The stories varied, but all shared the same villain: a red-eyed creature with a human body and the face of a beast, swathed in an oilskin cloak, who left the odor of death and fire behind him. And now the cycle had started again, this time in northern Michigan, with young college students turning up burned and bloated, eyes wide and staring out of coal-black faces at a horror they couldn't name.

And it was coming.

The first sign was the birds. They went from twittering away, calling and answering, to complete silence. A mourning dove burst from the forest floor just ahead of Dean, its wings whistling with a sound of panic. Then he heard _it_, heard it creeping through the brush, crushing twigs as it came, heavy breaths like grunts shattering the quiet, making the hair on the back of Dean's neck stand on end.

Dean lifted the shotgun, tucking the butt tight against his shoulder and laying his cheek against the cool, smooth wood. His heart quickened slightly, his body responding viscerally to the multitude of cues that were now telling him that danger was near. It was the feeling of being _alive_. He adjusted his sights, snuggling the stock closer against his body, reveling in the feeling of being nothing more than a set of eyes and a trigger finger.

But then the feeling broke, crumbled, leaving him with a lump in his stomach and the taste of dread in his mouth, because it wasn't right. Something wasn't right. What could he have forgotten? He tried to ignore the strange sensation, squeezing one eye shut and staring down the gun barrel, waiting for that evil, raping son of a bitch to come into the glen, to come for his due.

But the feeling only grew. Dean lifted his head, trying to shake off the distraction, to hone in on the threat. The sweet, sickly smell of burnt flesh and hair reached his nostrils and he swallowed a retch, mentally kicking himself in the ass. _Get it together, Dean. Focus._

Before he could readjust his grip on the gun, a blur of motion flashed into sight and Dean squeezed the trigger, the recoil of the blast punching him in the shoulder, and the stock rebounded into his jaw, sending stars of pain across his vision. A spray of buckshot peppered the trees but struck only leaves. The creature had vaulted into the air, clean over Dean's head, and landed behind him, crouched in a twisted parody of Dean's own stance.

Before Dean could twist and fire another shot, the beast leapt forward, lashing out with its arm and sending the shotgun flying across the clearing. Dean stumbled backward, one hand immediately going to his waistband for his buck knife. With a chilling snarl and uncanny speed, the creature again surged forward, knocking Dean onto his back. Almost reflexively, Dean thrust his hand forward, driving the knife deep into its stomach. He twisted and yanked upward, feeling the blade tear through gristle and muscle, boiling hot blood spurting over his hand.

The creature threw its head back and let out a piercing, roaring scream, pain and rage burning in its eyes, and Dean let out a little howl of his own, yanking his hand back from the heat that was now scalding his flesh. He pulled his knees upward and lashed out, kicking the beast square in the chest and sending it staggering backward, clutching at the knife hilt that protruded from its gut. For a split second, the two regarded one another, both panting for breath.

The red eyes of the brute flamed with fury, with bloodlust, twisting its features into a gruesome caricature. With another roar it sprang toward him, and Dean scrambled back, fumbling to retrieve the shotgun from the brush. But it was too fast, and as Dean's fingers found the cold steel of the double barrels, the creature landed atop him, straddling his body.

Dean reached upward in a desperate bid to snatch the knife from the creature's body, but it knocked his hand aside and landed a stunning blow across his temple. He sagged back against the ground, fighting unconsciousness, trying to get his body to respond to his desperate commands. But then, with a snarl of pure hatred, the beast tore the knife from its midriff, and in a crude echo of Dean's own actions, drove the blade to the hilt into Dean's stomach.

Dean tried, tried mightily to fight back, to save himself, but his limbs refused to cooperate. He flailed uselessly, landing a few ineffectual blows against the creature's arms and chest, but the pain and blood loss was defeating him quickly. Dean let out a convulsive cough, and a wet spray of blood issued from his throat, spattering his chin. He reached forward and grasped the beast by the shoulder, trying with his last strength to push it away. Instead, the creature leaned into his hand, moving its face closer, glee and hatred in its eyes.

A flaring heat began to build in Dean's chest, an unbearable, searing flame, until he thought he would die from the pain of it. He stifled a scream, the little bit of Dean that still lived in his mind forbidding him to cry out. Instead he bit down on his lower lip, feeling blood spurt fresh from his mouth.

Darkness began to creep in from the edges of his vision, unconsciousness coming to save him from the pain and the horror of smelling his own burning flesh, and Dean wasn't so sure he didn't welcome it.

The last thing he saw before giving in to the darkness was his brother, his brother Sam, crashing through the undergrowth, face contorted with a scream of rage.


	9. Chapter 9

**Bitch is on a ROLL, now. Please review and let me know what you think...indulge my need for acknowledgement, please, then head to my website to read my answers. The boys aren't mine. If they were? Well, just RAWR.**

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It hadn't taken long for Sam to trace Dean's path to northern Michigan. Not too many young men blew into Epsilon in a vintage muscle car, much less young men asking strange questions, and the locals were more than happy to gossip about it. Last thing they knew, the stranger had been headed for the forest just east of town, to hunt whitetail they said, though he didn't look too much like any hunter they had ever seen. _If they only knew_, thought Sam.

He found the Impala parked just off the highway, on a dirt two-track road that snaked off into the woods. He wasn't far into the trees when he heard a sound, the not-so-distant blast of a shotgun, and he suddenly tasted the tang of fear in his mouth. He took off at a run, heading in the direction of the shot, unholstering his glock and doing a quick press-check as he did. _Hang on, Dean, I'm coming._

Another sound ripped through the trees, this time an unearthly shriek, and Sam quickened his pace. That was no whitetail deer, he knew, which could only mean that Dean was near.

Time seemed to stop as Sam burst into a clearing and saw a creature, a _monster_, straddling Dean, staring at him with a gaze full of hate and evil intent. Smoke had begun to rise from Dean's clothes, but Sam could see only the blood on his brother's face. As he let out a wild yell, he watched Dean's eyes roll back and close, and panic threatened to drown Sam.

Pistol in hand, he leapt forward and pulled the trigger as the beast turned to stare at him with its burning red eyes. Bullets connected, pummeling the creature once, then twice in the chest, and it fell backward, flailing and shrieking, trying to crawl back into the underbrush. But Sam strode to its side and emptied his clip, each shot echoing in his ears like an explosion, each bullet wound yielding a flash of blue flame and a geyser of steaming black blood. As the slide locked back, Sam stared down at the creature for a moment, his chest heaving with the intensity of his anger.

But then he remembered.

He turned and fell to his knees at Dean's side, his heart hammering. Dean lay motionless on a bed of leaves, one hand flung out to the side. A wicked looking bruise was already swelling along his jaw line where the shotgun had smashed him in the face, and his mouth and chin were painted with drying blood. His skin was pale, with a sheen of sweat polishing his forehead and cheeks, and his breath was coming in little gasps, rapid, panting hiccups for air.

"Dean!" Sam's voice was high with terror. Dean's eyes opened a fraction of an inch, showing more white than hazel, and his lips moved silently, forming Sam's name. "Oh, my God," Sam breathed, panic stealing his voice. With shaking fingers, he gently touched the hilt of the knife that protruded from Dean's stomach. "Jesus, Dean. Can you hear me?"

At the sound of Sam's voice, Dean's eyes opened a bit wider, their gaze unfocused, and his lips moved again. "Sam."

"I'm getting you out of here, Dean. You're gonna be fine." The trembling in Sam's voice betrayed his positive words, and he swallowed hard to find some measure of calm. Softly, he ran his hands over Dean's chest, searching for other wounds. But his eyes kept coming back to that knife hilt, and to the steadily growing stain of blood on Dean's shirt.

"Sammy…you okay?" Dean's voice was throaty, roughened with pain and the effort of speaking.

Sam's heart lurched in his chest and tears sprang to his eyes. "I'm okay, Dean. I'm fine. But we've got to get you to a hospital. I'm going to have to move you, okay?" Dean nodded wordlessly, closing his eyes, swallowing hard. Sam lightly touched his fingers to the hollow behind the curve of Dean's jaw, seeking his pulse. The heartbeat was quick and erratic, and Dean's skin was far too clammy for Sam's liking. He stripped off his jacket and tucked it over Dean's upper chest, being careful not to jostle the knife. "You ready?" Dean made no reply.

Sam took a deep breath to steel his nerves, and slid an arm under Dean's knees. He wrapped the other arm around Dean's shoulders, cradling him to his chest, and pushed himself to his feet. As he did, Dean took a shuddering breath, biting down on a grunt of pain, and a tremor ran through his body like a fever chill. Sam grunted a bit himself as he hoisted his brother's compact, muscled weight. "Gotta cut down on the pie there, Dean," he joked, trying to hide his fear as Dean's head lolled listlessly against his shoulder.

Sam tried valiantly to keep his stride as smooth as possible, trying not to jostle Dean too much, but the forest floor would not cooperate. He stumbled on a gnarled tree root and nearly dropped him, and Dean's body tensed in his arms, tendons standing out in his neck as he bit back the pain. "Sorry, bro," murmured Sam, carefully readjusting his grip before continuing on.

Soon, but not soon enough for Sam, they reached the Impala. He felt an odd sense of relief at seeing it, as though now that they were there with the car, with Dean's baby, things were going to be all right.

He managed to get the car door open and maneuvered Dean to a seated position in the back. Dean's skin had paled still further, with a pallor that made Sam's stomach turn. "Hang on, Dean," whispered Sam, brushing a hand across Dean's forehead, where the hair had clumped together in sweaty ropes. He dashed to the other side of the car and reached through to pull Dean backward across the seat. As he did, he noticed that Dean's hands were trembling with a rapid, frightening palsy. Sam swallowed back another wave of terror and gently laid his brother down on the seat.

The rumble of the Impala's engine as he started the car was like a calming voice for Sam, and he made a sharp u-turn back toward the highway. He glanced over his shoulder, eyeing Dean, and his blood ran cold as he saw that the tremor in Dean's hands had spread to his legs. Flooring the accelerator, Sam fishtailed off the two-track onto the highway, narrowly missing an oncoming SUV. "Stay with me, brother," he called, trying to keep the panic from his voice. Looking back again, he was suddenly struck with the memory of Dean, unconscious, bleeding, and near dead, laying in the back seat of the crumpled, broken Impala. How many times would they have to do this? How many times did he have to watch his brother bleed?

A soft whisper from the backseat jolted Sam. "Dad…" Tears slicked Sam's eyes again as he heard his brother's weak voice. "Where's dad? Is…" A hiccup of pain interrupted Dean's words. "…he okay?"

Sam hesitated only a split second before replying, "He's okay, Dean. We're gonna get you to the hospital, and he'll meet us there." _Dammit, don't do this, Dean. Don't do it. Don't do it._

Dean replied with a long, low moan, a rattling hum that filled Sam's ears and drowned out everything else. The roar of the engine, the rush of the road beneath the tires, even the staticky radio that was hissing out an Allman Brothers tune, it all faded into white noise. Sam had heard that sort of moan before, many times. It's the sound a man makes when he's bleeding out, when he's dying. "Don't you do it, Dean," barked Sam, reaching back with one hand to squeeze Dean's knee. "Don't give up, man, stay with me. You're a warrior, you got that? Don't you give up."

Dean did not reply. Sam looked over his shoulder, seeking his brother's eyes. Dean's blood had saturated his shirt and was now dripping from the car seat onto the floor mats with a sickening, plopping sound. His eyes were closed and his mouth was slack. "Fucking wake up!" roared Sam, his self-control overcome, and he landed an awkward blow on Dean's leg, trying to pummel him awake. "Don't fucking do this! You son of a bitch, you fight!"

And the tears that Sam had been fighting overflowed his eyes, burning in rivers down his cheeks as he screamed at his dying brother.


	10. Chapter 10

**This story is going along quickly, but it's taking a lot out of me! Bringing up some things that I probably should leave alone, you know. But ah well. I give all for the muse. Thanks to all who have been reading and reviewing. You guys are a real encouragement. Head on over to my blog for the review answers, and for a little insight into why this story has me a bit bothered. Thanks again, all.**

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The tires of the Impala squealed in protest as Sam whipped into the roundabout in front of the Emergency Room, nearly running down a cigarette-smoking orderly who was lounging on the curb. Ignoring the No Parking signs, Sam slammed the gearshift into park and stumbled from the car, tripping and landing on one knee. He ignored the stab of pain that ripped through his leg, and shouted, "I need a doctor!"

The orderly flipped his cigarette onto the concrete and jogged to Sam's side, reaching out to grab his elbow and pull him back to his feet. He stared at the blood on Sam's shirt, eyebrows arching. "Jesus, fella, what happened to you?"

Sam shrugged away from his touch and ripped open the back door of the car. He reached inside and gently pulled Dean to his chest, cradling him under the arms. The orderly's eyes widened at the sight of the knife protruding from Dean's stomach. "Christ," he muttered, and turned to gesture wildly to the security guard who was leaning against the front door.

"Hang on, man. Help's coming," Sam whispered against Dean's cheek. He pulled Dean's body closer to his own, skin crawling at how cold and slack his brother felt.

Seemingly out of nowhere a stretcher appeared, accompanied by a gang of doctors and nurses. Sam had to force himself to release Dean's limp body, to allow them to pick him up and lay him on the stretcher. The grim looks on their faces increased his terror, and he followed closely on their heels as they rushed Dean inside to a trauma room. "What's his blood type?" barked one of the doctors.

"O…O Positive," stammered Sam, his eyes glued to Dean's pale face, where the blood had dried to a rusty crust. The sweet, biting smell of hospital slapped him in the face and he felt suddenly nauseous. The security guard placed a hand on his chest to stop him following Dean into the treatment room, and Sam had to bite down the urge to clock the guy right in the mouth. Instead, he stepped to the window and stared in at his brother. Dean was surrounded by people, and was horribly still and pale amid the frenzy.

As one of the doctors cut off Dean's clothes, a stray thought meandered into Sam's mind. _Dean's gonna be pissed. Those are his favorite jeans. _He shook the thought away and pressed closer to the window. He winced as Dean's blood-soaked shirt hit the floor with a wet smack. A nurse lifted Dean's feet and placed a pair of pillows under them, and then went to work unlacing his boots. Dean's abdomen looked distended, with an odd sort of potbelly replacing his normally flat stomach. Another nurse tipped Dean's chin back, and Sam felt faint as he watched a doctor slide a tube down Dean's throat. Dizziness washed over Sam and he felt his knees go weak. He turned and slithered to a seat on the linoleum, back pressed against the window, heart hammering in his throat.

"What happened, anyway?" A voice yanked Sam back from the edge of passing out, and he looked up into the face of the security guard. "Who stabbed him?" There was a notebook in the man's hand, and Sam felt his heart rate rise. _Shit. _

Sam dropped his face into his hands and his shoulders began to shake. "I just…I need a couple minutes, man," he choked. It wasn't hard to feign hysteria, because it was already lurking just below the surface of Sam's emotions. He needed to buy time, to come up with a story that wouldn't bring the police like flies to shit. He could bet that not too many stabbings came into a small-town hospital like this, and Dean would be the topic of much conversation. The security guard made a little noise of understanding and pocketed his notepad. He glanced in at the scrum of doctors, and then padded away, leaving Sam in a pile on the floor.

Sam could hear the voices in the trauma room, tense with urgency, talking about class four hemorrhagic shock, and perfusion, and tachycardia, and on and on with words he didn't understand. His head began to spin and he wanted to stand up and scream, scream at the doctors to stop talking so much and fix his brother, because in the end all their medical mumbo-jumbo meant fuck-all if they couldn't save Dean.

A pair of doctors in green surgical scrubs brushed by Sam, and he staggered to his feet to watch them through the window. They bent over Dean's body, talking in low voices, glancing at monitors and probing at the knife that still projected from Dean's midriff. A nurse bent low over Dean's side, threading a large needle into a vein in the crook of his elbow, then stood to hang a bag of crimson blood on the side of the bed. At a sharp command from one of the doctors, the entire team took hold of the gurney and wheeled it out of the room at a run, heading for the elevators.

Sam turned to follow but was stopped by a kindly looking nurse in a shamrock-printed scrub top. "They'll be taking him to surgery. If you can wait a minute, I'll take you up to the waiting room and we'll have a doctor come talk to you." Sam glanced at her nametag, which read O'Donoghue, and nodded wordlessly. His eyes darted back to watch the gurney disappear into one of the elevators, the bottoms of Dean's bare feet visible until the doors closed. The nurse squeezed his arm and smiled gently, and then turned to the receiving desk to speak quietly to one of the receptionists.

Sam stood staring into the now-empty treatment room, eyes glued to the linoleum floor that was spattered with Dean's blood, and at the crumpled t-shirt that lay in a wet lump on the ground. Dean's boots sat side-by-side, scuffed up and sad-looking. Sam shook his head slightly, trying to ignore the ringing in his ears, but then realized that it was his phone. Dashing a hand across his face, he took a breath to compose himself as he dug his cell out of his pocket. "Yeah?"

"Oh, baby, I'm so sorry." Missouri's rich voice flooded Sam's ear and he felt a warm rush in his chest. The corners of his mouth trembled and he took a shuddering breath.

"Is he going to be okay?" No time to bother with pleasantries.

There was a pause on the line, and then Missouri replied, "I don't know, Sam. I can't see. But your brother is strong. I can feel him fighting all the way down here."

"I think it's pretty bad, Missouri." Fear thickened Sam's voice, and he let out a cough to cover it, swallowing hard around the lump in his throat.

"Dean's about as stubborn a man as I ever met, and that includes your father. He's not gonna give up, baby. But you go be with him. He needs to know that you're there, that he's not alone."

Sam gave up on trying to hold back the tears, and they traced hot lines down his cheeks to drip from his chin. "I know." He cleared his throat again, running the heel of his palm under his eyes. "I'm gonna go talk to the doctors."

"You be strong, honey."

Sam clicked the phone shut without saying goodbye, unsure that he would be able to do so without bursting into uncontrolled sobs, and he wasn't about to do that in the middle of a crowded emergency department. Nurse O'Donoghue turned back to him and grasped him softly by the elbow. "I'll take you up now." Sam nodded and followed her wordlessly, feeling lightheaded again. "Is that your friend you brought in?" she asked in a conversational tone, reaching forward to press the elevator button.

Sam shook his head slightly. "My brother." Her brow furrowed in a look of sympathy, and she patted him on the arm again. The elevator doors shushed open and they stepped inside. The glaring white walls made Sam's eyes hurt.

"The doctors here are very good. I know they'll do everything they can for him." The nurse looked up at him, and the skin around her eyes crinkled a bit as she pursed her mouth. "Though you don't look very well yourself. I think when we get upstairs you should sit down and have some juice or something. I don't want you fainting on us, okay?"

Her concern made Sam's heart clench, and he nodded again, giving her a wan smile. "Can you do something for me?"

"I can try."

"I need to be with him when he wakes up. Can you make sure they let me be there?" Sam started to give his puppy-eyes, but they weren't necessary. The quaver in his voice told her all she needed to know, and she gave him another sympathetic smile.

"I think we can arrange that." The elevator doors opened to a long, wide corridor, a fluorescent hell that smelled like chemicals and blood, and Sam's knees felt weak again. Nurse O'Donoghue led him to a small, carpeted waiting room and forced him to a seat in a shabby armchair. She dodged into the hallway for a moment, then returned and pressed a plastic bottle of orange juice into Sam's hand. "If you need anything, honey, you just ask for me, okay?" Sam nodded, and she gave him one last gentle pat, and then disappeared down the hall, her white tennis shoes squeaking on the tile.

Sam placed the juice on the floor and rested his elbows on his knees, dropping his face into his palms. There was nothing he could do but wait.


	11. Chapter 11

**Hm. I'm not very happy with this chapter, but here it is. Stupid plot, getting in the way of Hurt!Dean. Maybe I'll just start writing chapter after chapter of blood and near-death. But don't worry, Dean will be back in the next chapter, when we find out the outcome of his surgery. Oh well. Please review, and head to my blog for review answers and general blathering. And the boys don't belong to me. If they did, I would never write on this site. I would be _far_ too busy.**

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Sam's eyes were drooping with fatigue when a squat, round security guard poked his balding head into the waiting room. "Sorry to bother you, bub, but you gotta move your car." Sam nodded and passed a hand over his face, trying to scrub away the weariness. He glanced at his watch. Two hours since Dean had gone into the O.R. Two hours of sitting, thumb up his ass, helpless to do anything but wait. It was the longest two hours of Sam's life.

His legs felt like rubber as he stood so he stomped out the pins and needles, and rotated his shoulders, which had tightened up in protest of Dean's weight. As Sam stepped into the corridor, his eyes were drawn toward the doors marked _Restricted_, the doors that stood between him and Dean. He chewed the side of his mouth, wanting nothing more than to charge through those doors. But no. No point in acting like a mama bear, no matter how much he wanted to, and there was absolutely nothing that he could do now to help Dean. The best thing to do was to keep a low profile, and wait for the doctors to do their jobs. So he squared his shoulders and loped toward the elevators.

As he stepped out of the building he was a bit startled to see that the sun was setting, casting a fading golden light across the Impala. Sam dropped into the front seat, and he couldn't help but give a little shudder as he caught the scent of blood. He pulled the car out of the roundabout and found a parking space at the back of the lot. After glancing around to ensure he was alone, he popped the trunk and pulled a pair of jeans and a shirt from Dean's duffel. Another quick check for people revealed no one, so Sam quickly stripped off his blood-crusted pants and t-shirt, and slid into the clean clothes. He dug into the front pocket of the bag and pulled out a wad of ID cards.

_Who shall I be today?_

He flipped through the cards, slipped a pair of licenses into his pocket, and tossed the rest back into the trunk. He looked back toward the hospital, which was enveloped in the last dying glow of daylight, and couldn't help but raise his eyes toward the sky, wishing to be anywhere else. Wishing for a lot of things.

But then his heart constricted as he caught sight of a police cruiser gliding into the parking lot. _Fuck._ Sam slammed the trunk shut and walked nonchalantly away from the car, not wanting to draw attention. The last thing he needed was the cops sniffing around the Impala. One look in the trunk and it was game over.

Sam waited between two parked cars until the patrol unit pulled under the roundabout, then he slipped into a side door and hurried across to the registration desk, where he caught sight of a shamrock-sprinkled scrub top. "Nurse O'Donoghue," he called, and she turned to him with raised eyebrows. "Do you have my brother's things? His boots and clothes?" She glanced backward, nudged aside another nurse, and retrieved a plastic bag.

"Any word on your brother?" she asked, handing the bag to Sam. He shook his head and she pursed her mouth. "How are _you_ feeling…" She paused, waiting for a name.

"Jason. Jason Fish. And I'm doing okay." He reached forward and laid his hand over hers. "I'm gonna go back up to the waiting room. But I just wanted to thank you for taking care of me, making sure I got my head together." She smiled and nodded, patting his hand.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam glimpsed a blue-uniformed officer stepping into the E.R. With a final smile and a little wink at the nurse, Sam turned and walked at a fast clip toward the elevators, clutching the bag of Dean's clothes to his chest. He had to make sure that Dean's things didn't contain anything that could cause trouble. Knowing Dean, there was no telling what could be lurking in the pockets of his jeans.

The elevator doors opened onto the second floor and Sam dodged back into the waiting room, which was thankfully still empty. He dropped to his knees on the carpet and began to dig through the bag. His skin crawled as his fingers grasped Dean's clammy, blood-soaked t-shirt, and he clawed past it to go through the pockets of the pants. He came up with a handful of silver bullets and jammed them into his own pocket, but found nothing else. There was no ID card, so the identities Sam had chosen back at the Impala would work out fine.

Sam heard the elevator doors whoosh open, and he crammed the clothes back into the bag and tossed it into the corner. He glanced at his hands and grimaced at the sight of gummy blood staining his skin. He took a frantic look around, then wiped his hands across the back of one of the tattered arm chairs and flung himself into a seat just as a blond, barrel-chested police officer rounded into the room.

The officer looked Sam up and down once, and removed his garrison cap. "Are you Jason Fish?" Sam nodded, hand fisting in his lap. _Calm. Be calm. _"I'm Officer Deenik. Mind if I sit down and ask you a couple questions?" Deenik didn't wait for permission, settling into one of the chairs, his leather belt and holster creaking in the quiet. "I understand that your brother came in here with a stab wound this afternoon. How is he?"

Sam nodded again, keeping his face neutral, despite the fact that his mind was racing and his palms were sweating. "He's still in surgery."

"I'm sorry to bother you with this now, but can you tell me what happened? Do you know who stabbed him?" Deenik produced a notepad from his breast pocket and poised a pen over it, searching Sam's face with his gray eyes.

"He did it himself." The words popped out before Sam really thought them through, and he felt a pang of panic in his stomach as Deenik's eyebrows quirked upward.

"I beg your pardon?" The disbelief in the officer's voice was palpable. He looked almost amused as he scribbled in his notebook.

"I know it sounds strange, but it's the truth." Sam leaned forward in his chair, seeking Deenik's eyes. "Jack and I lost our dad a while back in a car accident. Dad and Jack were really close, and since the accident Jack hasn't been the same. He took it really hard, and he's been kind of tail spinning, drinking a lot. Always picking fights with the biggest guy around." Sam paused, dropping his eyes. "He called me this morning, left me a message saying goodbye. I found…" He faltered, and this time it wasn't an act. "I found him right after he stabbed himself."

Deenik twitched his mouth, tapping his pen against his notepad. "Has your brother ever tried to kill himself before?"

Sam shocked himself by making a small 'heh' noise, half-laugh, half-verbal-shrug. "I'll just say that I've been worried about him for a long time. He doesn't so much try to kill himself outright. He's just…" He paused, a bitter smile creeping over his face. "He's just not particularly careful."

The officer scratched out a few more things on his pad, then slipped it back into his pocket. "Mr. Fish, I'm very sorry about your brother. Unfortunately we're a pretty small town up here, so there's no detective available until Monday. But he'll be in contact. Nothing personal, you understand; it's just procedure." Deenik stood, tugging at his uniform shirt, and turned to leave.

"The last thing I said to him before he did it…" As Sam spoke, Deenik turned back to look back at him. "I called him a whore. Called him a jerk. Then I walked out the door, and he left." A long pause. "And now here he is." Tears burned in Sam's eyes.

Deenik gave a small smile of understanding. "I've been around a lot of years, Mr. Fish. And I can tell you for sure; your brother didn't do this because of what you said. He did it because of something inside him. You can't take the blame for his mistakes."

_You have no idea._

Deenik reached back into his pocket and pulled out a business card, and then leaned forward to hand it to Sam. "We'll be in touch. You call me if you think of anything else you want to tell me."

Sam nodded, staring down at the card, at the police shield etched in gold foil in the heavy paper. Deenik's boot-steps faded down the hall, and Sam finally looked up, eyes focused far off.

_You can't take the blame for his mistakes._

Dean had spent most of his life taking the blame for Sam's mistakes. Taking the consequences, everything from John's spankings to Demon Deals. And now look. Now look at what had come of it. Dean under a surgeon's knife, his belly full of blood. And Sam alone in a shabby hospital waiting room, not bothering to wipe away the tears that were dripping from his chin.

There was plenty of blame to go around.


	12. Chapter 12

**Ugh. Migraine. No energy to rant. Please review.**

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Blinking sleepily, Sam stared at the muted television, watching a big-chested, big-haired redhead bouncing around and mauling Pat Sajak. From the numbness in his ass, he felt like he had been sitting there for ages, drifting in and out of sleep, just waiting. Waiting and thinking, watching nurses drift up and down the corridor outside the room like silent spirits in squeaky tennis shoes.

His weariness disappeared in a flash when a tall woman in surgical scrubs stepped into the waiting room and pulled off her scrub cap to reveal a head of short-cropped blonde hair. "Are you Mister Fish?" Sam leaped to his feet and hurried to meet her, hand outstretched. "I'm Doctor Franklin."

"How's D…Jack? How's my brother?" he stammered, pumping her hand in a quick shake. "Is he okay? Can I see him?"

The surgeon held up her free hand to slow Sam down. "He's alive, yes. I wouldn't qualify his status as _okay_, but he's stable and not in any immediate danger at this point."

A breath hissed out of Sam's lungs and he suddenly felt light-headed with relief. "Thank God," he sighed, placing a hand on his forehead to steady himself.

The doctor gestured toward the chairs and they both took a seat. "The knife nicked a major blood vessel, but we were able to clamp it off and repair it. You may have noticed that he had a little bit of a swollen belly when you brought him in. He lost a good portion of his blood volume and it was all pooling in his abdomen, which caused the swelling. Given the size of the blade, there was remarkably little soft tissue damage beside the partial dissection of the artery. Your brother was very lucky that you got him here quickly."

_My brother would have been lucky if he had never gotten stabbed in the first place. _Sam shook his head, berating himself for being snarky when the doctor had _no_ idea about the true issue at hand. Stress and fatigue were making him cranky, and all he wanted to do was see Dean. "Can I see him?"

"He's been in recovery for some time now, and he should be in his own room in a few minutes. When I came to find you directly after the surgery, they told me that you were outside moving your car, so I went to check on a few other patients. I'm sorry I couldn't meet with you right after we were done. Anyway, he obviously won't be released today, but I'm hopeful that we won't have to keep him long."

"But he's going to be okay?" Sam's voice trembled a bit. The events of the past days, Dean's disappearance, the chase across the country, and now Dean's injuries…it was beginning to overwhelm him.

Doctor Franklin tipped her head to one side, making a noncommittal face. "It's a bit early to tell, honestly. We can't rule out organ damage due to lack of perfusion. We'll have to wait until he wakes up to check his mental status but we can monitor the other organs to determine if there is any damage there."

A fist of fear grabbed Sam's stomach and twisted it. "So you're saying he could have brain damage?"

She gave a little shrug. "It's always a possibility when you have as much blood loss as Jack did. But like I said, you got him here quickly, and hopefully we managed to stabilize him before any permanent damage was done. Plus he's breathing on his own, which is very good. We just won't know until he wakes up."

Sam pushed a hand through his hair, his heart jumping in his chest with new fear, new worry. The look on his face must have given him away because Doctor Franklin motioned toward the door. "Why don't we walk down to his room and see if they've brought him in yet? You can see for yourself that he's stable and not in any danger right now." Sam nodded thankfully, the corners of his mouth pursing inward to stop his lip trembling.

He followed Doctor Franklin through the hallway, his heart pounding in tandem with his footsteps. She stopped at the end of the hall and peeked into a dimly lit room, then motioned to Sam. With a breath to steel his nerves, Sam stepped inside.

Dean was prone on the bed, pale and still. The tube had been removed from his throat, and now just a nasal cannula was draped beneath his nose. There was an angry bruise on his jaw, brilliant swirling red and purple and blue. The delicate skin beneath one eye was bruised too, a lovely shiner that Sam knew Dean would be proud of. The other eye was ringed with a dark circle against the pale skin of his cheekbone. His hair was lank and ropy with sweat, sticking to his forehead. Sam did have to admit that his brother looked better now that the blood had been cleaned from his mouth and chin, but that wasn't saying too much.

Sam stepped closer to the bed, his eyes traveling across Dean's body as though he were counting fingers and toes, making sure his brother was whole. He reached out a tentative hand and touched Dean's shoulder, shivering at the feeling of the thin cotton of the hospital gown beneath his fingers, but compared to the last time he had touched Dean, the flesh felt wonderfully warm. Dean's chest rose and fell in a steady cadence, the deep breaths of dreamless sleep.

"I know he doesn't look very good right now, but he's doing well." Doctor Franklin's voice made Sam jump a little, and he covered by coughing into his fist. "He's in remarkably good shape, young and strong. He's definitely a fighter." She looked down at Dean with a curious mix of pride and relief. "I can't say that we get many traumatic injuries like this here, so it was a challenge."

_Glad he could oblige you. _Sam bit down around the snotty comment, mentally kicking his inner monologue for being a dick. "Thank you for doing such a good job, Doctor. I don't know what I would do…" He couldn't finish. Doctor Franklin gripped his shoulder with a remarkably strong hand, then after a last look at the monitors surrounding Dean's bed, she left the room.

Sam pulled a chair up next to the bed and eased himself to a seat, listening to the quiet tones of the heart monitor. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the side of the mattress, staring at Dean's face. "Dude," he said quietly, "If I weren't so happy to see you alive, I'd kill you."


	13. Chapter 13

**This chapter is a slight indication about how truly evil I can be to my boys when the yen strikes me. So for those who have been missing Dean!Torture, here we go. _Please_ review, ya'll. And as always, the boys aren't mine.**

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_Dean opened his eyes and stared at the paint that was peeling in huge, moldy shards from the ceiling. The dim moon's wavering light streamed through the barred windows, casting eerie shadows on the walls, illuminating a room full of rusted medical equipment. The light fixture above him was dark, with dead moths sprinkled liberally along the glass frame and cobwebs drifting down like silk veils. He was lying on a slab, the cold metal leaching the warmth from his bones._

_The sound of shuffling footsteps against bare concrete drew his attention and he moved to sit up, to reach for a weapon, but his body wouldn't respond. He looked down and saw that his hands and ankles were strapped to the table, bound so tightly that the circulation to his hands was cut off, turning his fingers an ugly purple._

_He began to struggle against the bonds, thrashing and pulling, but was shocked into stillness as a face came into view. It was the leering, decomposing face of Doctor Sanford Ellicott, who was eyeing him with sinister glee. "Don't be afraid." Dean's heart skipped a beat and he swallowed down a wave of nausea as he felt Ellicott's cold hand caress his cheek. _

"_I'm going to help you." The voice was familiar, and Dean's blood ran cold as he realized why. It was Sam's voice. Ellicott's touch was soft, almost sensual, as it traced down Dean's cheek to his throat and brushed against his pulse point._

_Then the touch disappeared and Dean lifted his head again, frantically looking for Ellicott, searching for escape. There came the clatter of metal on metal, of surgical instruments on a tray, and then Ellicott drifted back into view, scalpel in hand. With his other hand he lifted Dean's shirt, exposing his midriff to the draft of cold air that suddenly blew through the room. His fingers grazed the skin of Dean's stomach like a lover's touch, but Dean felt only the coldness of death._

"_I'm going to make you all better". The scalpel bit into Dean's flesh, tracing a line in crimson blood across his abdomen. Dean bit down around a groan, feeling more rage than pain, and pulled again at the straps that held his wrists, biceps straining._

"_Don't be afraid," soothed Ellicott, drawing the scalpel across Dean's stomach again, deeper this time. With those words, he laid down the blade and placed his hands on Dean's bleeding flesh. "I'm going to make you all better." With his icy fingers, he grasped the edges of the incision and pulled with all his strength, tearing the flesh and sending a well of blood pouring from the wound._

"_I'm going to help you."_

_Dean arched his back against the agony of it, breath coming in panting gasps, hands squeezed into white-knuckled fists. _

_"Good little soldier…"_

_The well of blood grew to a fountain, splashing on the table and the floor in loud, sickening splats._

"_I have a mind of my own…"_

_Ellicott dug still further into the wound and Dean could feel him wrenching at his insides, exploring, yanking, tearing. His legs began to spasm in a palsy of pain and shock, his boots drumming against the table._

"_Pathetic, like you…"_

_Dean wanted to call out for Sam. But he could only scream._

"_Sick of doing what you tell me…"_

_Why wouldn't Sam come? Where was Sam?_

_"Pathetic…"_

Sam stood in the bathroom of Dean's room, running water into his cupped hands and splashing it over his face and neck. He felt unbearably grubby, gritty and itching with dried blood. He wanted nothing more than to stand under a searing hot shower and wash away the day, to let the water pound out the knots in his shoulders.

A sudden crashing sound nearly propelled him out of his skin and he turned to race back into the room, water dripping down to soak his shirt collar.

The heart monitor was on its side on the floor, beeping wildly, being jerked by the cord. Dean was flailing on the bed, arms and legs lurching wildly as though he was trying to escape something. He had kicked the covers down, revealing a spot of blood on his hospital gown. Sam rushed to his side, barking, "Dean!"

As he did, a scrum of nurses rushed into the room, followed by a resident who appeared to be about twelve years old. They muscled Sam out of the way and clustered around Dean. Sam momentarily considered charging them like a bull in Pamplona, but opted for standing back against the wall, hands jammed into his pockets, and watching with hitching breath. Praying.

After a moment, one of the nurses turned to pick up the heart monitor, setting it back onto its spindly legs at the side of the bed. The others began to drift out of the room until only the prepubescent resident remained. He turned to Sam, pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose with his middle finger.

"What's going on?" demanded Sam, fighting the urge to pick Doogie up by the scruff of his neck and shake him.

The resident, whose nametag said _Montgomery,_ shrugged his shoulders slightly and gestured back toward Dean. "Sometimes patients have nightmares as they're coming out of the anesthesia. It appears that your brother is a rather active sleeper."

Sam knew that very well, having been on the receiving end of many nocturnal kicks and punches from his brother. "What about the blood?" Sam's eyes were drawn to the bright red spot on Dean's gown.

"He pulled a few sutures. I'll stitch him back up and he'll be none the worse for wear." Montgomery took in the look of worry on Sam's face and softened his tone. "He's still stable, and not in any danger. It wasn't anything but a nightmare." The resident hooked a toe around a wheeled stool and pulled it up next to the bed. He pulled the covers back up to Dean's waist, then lifted the gown and sponged some blood from the incision with a cotton pad. As he threaded a needle with surgical silk, he glanced at Sam. "You sure you want to hang around for this?"

Sam snorted. "I've seen worse, believe me."

With a shrug, Montgomery turned and bent low over Dean, mouth pursed in concentration, and began stitching.

"How long until he wakes up?" asked Sam, stepping closer to inspect Montgomery's work. He had to admit that for a pre-teen, this guy wasn't half-bad at suturing.

"It actually shouldn't be long. He should be coming around at any time." Montgomery didn't look up as he spoke, instead wiping away the last of the oozing blood from Dean's incision. "That is provided that there's no brain damage that prevents him waking up."

Montgomery lost a few good-will points with Sam for that addendum. "He'll wake up. He's stubborn." Sam's voice carried more strength than he actually felt. But then it happened.

"S…Sam?"


	14. Chapter 14

**Ladies (and gentlemen?)! The moment you have been waiting for...the showdown. Review, and let me know what you think. As always, all reviews answered at my blog. And these boys ain't mine. Oh _God, _I wish they were mine. Rrrrrr.**

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Dean didn't so much drift back to consciousness as explode into it. One minute there was nothing, the next there were sounds, and smells, and touches. The most important thing was that there was pain, which meant he was alive. There was a throbbing burn in his stomach, accompanied by the sensation of someone tugging at his skin. 

And then he heard Sam's voice. Fucking praise be, his brother was here. He forced his eyes open and a fuzzy image swam into focus. Sam was bending over him, staring at his stomach, talking with a stranger in a low voice.

Dean tried to speak but his tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth. He pried it loose, grimacing slowly, and tried again. "S…Sam." His voice was raspy, barely more than a whisper, roughened from the trauma of the breathing tube.

Sam started, turned to stare at him. He didn't speak for a second, just looked at Dean with huge, deer-in-the-headlight eyes, then cried out, "Jack!"

Unless he was having some sort of identity crisis, Dean figured that Sam had them going incognito, so he didn't reply, just blinked. He smacked his mouth a little, now aware of the rancid taste of unconsciousness, and muttered, "Water."

The stranger next to Sam pushed backward on his stool, skidding across the room. In his absence, Sam leaned over Dean and whispered in his ear, "You're Jack Fish. I'm your brother Jason. You're here because you stabbed yourself."

"…the hell?" Dean blinked again, brow furrowing. "What's…going on?"

Before Sam could speak the stranger was back, a plastic cup of water in his hand. Sam snatched it and placed a hand under Dean's neck. He lifted Dean's head up so he could sip from the cup, the water cold and sweet in Dean's mouth. He tried to gulp it greedily, but the stranger stopped him. "Slowly. Not too much." The stranger, who was wearing a white coat and a nametag that said Montgomery, took the water away, and Dean wanted to punch him right in his pudgy little face.

Pudge-Montgomery touched Dean on the abdomen again, apparently inspecting his work, then smoothed a large adhesive bandage onto the skin. "Buzz if you need anything," he said to Sam, ignoring Dean entirely, which chalked up another punch that Dean owed him.

Sam pulled up Montgomery's stool and sat, staring at Dean with dewy eyes, which immediately irritated Dean. It was all he could do not to roll his own eyes, so he went the sarcastic strongman route. "Some Reaper must…have a real hard-on for me."

Sam shook his head with that incredulous, crinkled-up face that he always made when annoyed with Dean. "That's all you have to say?"

"What do you…want me to say, Sam?" Breathing hurt, a fiery burn in his gut, and his words caught in his chest as he spoke.

"I'd _never _abandon you, Dean. I'd _never _run off and leave you behind." Sam's voice rose in pitch, a little hysterical.

"Tell…me how you met…Meg, again?" retorted Dean, on the defensive, trying to distract Sam from the obvious point of the conversation.

"That's not the same, and you know it!" The hurt on Sam's face was more than Dean could take now, and he shut his eyes, willing his brother to take a breath and see things from his perspective. "You _left_ me without a word, without any idea of where you were or if you were okay! You did to me what dad did to you! You remember how you felt when he went missing and you were all alone?"

Now _that_ hurt. Dean opened his eyes again and stared daggers at Sam, hackles rising. No more Mister Nice-Dean. No more mincing words, no more protecting Sam's feelings. "You remember how you…felt when Jessica…died?" he ground out. Sam's mouth dropped open. "How it feels to…have someone die for you?"

"You asshole…"

"Do you know how many people have died for me, Sam?" Dean's voice grew in strength along with his anger. "Dad…Layla…Marshall Hall…"

"Stop it!" Sam's shout rolled like thunder, his face enraged. "For once in your life, shut your fucking mouth and listen to me!" Dean's eyes widened and he stared at his brother, mouth agape. Sam glanced back toward the door and lowered his voice to a hiss. "You're a selfish son-of-a-bitch. You didn't even give a thought to how it would make me feel if you sacrificed yourself and I didn't try to save _you_. You act like it wouldn't hurt me more than it hurt when Jessica died. You think I would just pick everything up and go back to Stanford, and live my life like you never existed?"

Dean clenched his hands in his lap. "Sammy." His voice, already low and rough from the breathing tube, was almost inaudible. "The only thing I've ever brought you is trouble. How do you think the demon found you at Stanford? He followed me there. It's _my _fault that your girlfriend died. It's _my_ fault that you're not away at school, and that you even got caught up in all this in the first place. If I had just gone to find Dad on my own, instead of dragging you along, we wouldn't be in this situation."

"Dean."

"So you're right. I am selfish. And I'm just trying to put everything right, Sam."

Sam stopped Dean by grabbing his wrist with a vice-like grip. "There's nothing to put right, Dean." Dean did not reply, just stared at him with eyes full of sadness, hopelessness. "I won't give you up for anything. Not even getting Jessica back, or dad, or mom. You're my brother, and nothing you have done or ever could do is going to change that. And I'm not gonna sit back and let you die."

A tear wobbled on Dean's eyelashes, but he refused to give in to it, steeling his jaw and blinking it away. He heaved out a heavy breath, ignoring the stab of pain it brought. "I'm tired, Sam. I don't want to do this anymore."

"I won't let you do it, Dean. I won't let you play God with my life. Or yours." Sam released his grip on Dean's wrist and he scrubbed a hand across his own face. "We'll find a way. We will." He ducked his head, caught Dean's gaze with his own. "But no more running away from it."

Dean looked back at him, his fatigue, pain and sorrow showing in the set of his mouth. "I shouldn't even be here, Sammy." His voice trembled and his chin puckered slightly. "I'm just so tired. I should have died when my heart gave out. But Marshall and Layla died for me. I should have died after the car accident. But Dad died for me. I don't think I can do it again. I don't want to do it again."

Sam dropped his chin and shook his head slightly, brow furrowed with pain of his own. "You won't have to, Dean." He wanted so much to take Dean's hand, show him that he was still there, still alive, and not going anywhere. But it was Dean. And Dean didn't hold hands. "We're going to find a way. We will."

Dean turned his face away from Sam, biting his lower lip to stop it quivering. "I hope you're right, Sam."

And the two brothers sat together, unable to say all the words that still needed to be said.


	15. Chapter 15

**The boys. Not mine. :( Please review.**

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Sam ignored the asphalt that was digging into his knees and leaned deeper into the Impala. He had batted his eyes at one of the housecleaning staff and flirted her into giving him a roll of paper towels and a bottle of cleaning fluid, and he was now busily scrubbing out the back of the car. Dean's blood had dried into gummy, deep brown crud that stuck to the leather seat and filled the grooves of the floor mats, requiring a ridiculous amount of elbow grease to dislodge. But Sam would be damned if he would leave the Impala a mess. Dean would never forgive him, and Sam didn't think he could stand to ride in the car knowing what was in the back seat.

Finally he felt that the car would pass muster, so he tossed an armful of bloodstained paper towels into a trash bag, which he had also weaseled out of the housekeeper. He gave the Impala an affectionate pat, then flushed and let out an embarrassed giggle. _It's just a car, Sam, not the family dog, _he thought.

He wandered back up to the second floor of the hospital and down the hall towards Dean's room. But then he heard loud voices and heightened his pace. As he reached Dean's door, a white-haired, pale-faced man in an argyle sweater brushed past Sam, muttering under his breath and stamping his feet angrily. He stomped down the hall toward the nurses' station, grumbling all the way, something about 'smart-aleckey, know-it-all jackasses'.

Sam walked into the room and stopped short. Dean gave him such a dark look that Sam half-expected to see a thundercloud over Dean's head. "What's wrong with you?" he asked, pulling a chair up to the bed and flopping to a seat.

"Do you know who that was, Samuel?" Dean's tone was dangerous, angry. "That was a shrink. That was a prying, sensitive mama's boy who wanted me to talk about my feelings and about why I impaled myself with a buck knife."

Sam had to swallow a laugh. It was clear that Dean was in no mood to be teased, so he changed the subject. "I talked to your doctors. They say one more day and you should be good to go."

"About fucking time," grumbled Dean, inspecting his fingernails. "It's nothin' but a scratch, you'd think I almost died or something." He made a pained face and curled his hands into claws. "These stitches itch like a mother-fu…"

Sam interrupted, figuring he might as well just get the conversation over. "Before we go, I want to talk to you about something."

At Sam's words, Dean's face scrunched up and he rolled his eyes. "You're not going to go all Doctor Phil on me, are you? If I miss my sponge bath while you're lecturing me, there's gonna be hell to pay."

"Dean."

"I've nearly got that nurse under my spell, man. One more bath, and…"

"Dean!"

Dean sighed and shut his mouth, curling up one side of his lips in an exasperated sneer. "All right, what is it?"

"Are we going to deal with this?"

"With what?"

"With the fact that the deal is still on, and that I'll kick your ass if you try to leave again."

Dean barked out a little laugh. "I'd like to see you try." He rubbed his abdomen, gently scratching at the sutures. Sam just stared at him, one eyebrow raised, so Dean made a little grumbling mumble and stopped scratching. "Fine. I won't take off on you again. But _you_ have to promise _me _something."

"What is it?"

"You have to promise that you won't do anything without my say-so." Dean looked seriously at Sam, all trace of humor fading from his face. "No deal-making of your own, no trying _anything_ until we talk about it together. Any decision we make, we make it together. Deal?"

"Deal."

"Now get out of here before Nurse Jiggly-tits comes."

Sam laughed and swatted at his brother, a glow of warm relief spreading in his chest. No more running, no more chasing. Now there was only a job to be done, and they were going to do it together. Which is the way it should be.

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**Well, that's it, then. It's been a tremendous amount of fun writing this story, and I'm sad to see it end. But there are plenty of other ideas swimming around in my head, and plenty more torture for the boys to come. To all who have read and faithfully reviewed, thank you with all my heart. You guys are the best. On to bigger and better things. **


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